Duryea said, “I’m afraid I can’t very well do that, Gramps.”
“Why not?”
“We haven’t anything on Miss Moline except a lot of theories. She’s represented by an attorney. She’s inherited money. She’s no one you can shove around. The district attorney can’t resort to expedients like that unless he’s dealing with someone whom he’s morally satisfied has committed a crime. He...”
“Doggone it,” Gramps said. “Don’t be like that. Don’t be so damned conservative. Hell’s bells, you married a Wiggins. You must have a streak in you somewhere that’ll take a chance!”
Duryea laughed at the old man’s excitement. “I’m afraid, Gramps,” he said, “that’s one of the things that works fine in a story but might not work so well in real life.”
“The heck it wouldn’t,” Gramps said. “I tell you I was watchin’ her face. When Tucker shook his head, she perked right up. Now suppose Tucker had just nodded, an’ then after a minute his wife had nodded, too. Then what would she have done?”
“I don’t know,” Duryea said.
“Neither do I, but I’m makin’ a bet she’d have started explainin’, and when you get somebody like that startin’ to explain, you...”
“Well,” Duryea said with a note of finality in his voice, “it’s nothing I can do now, Gramps. It wouldn’t be in accordance with the dignity of my office. The people I used as stooges might talk, either then or afterwards, and it wouldn’t be ethical to...”
“All right, all right,” Gramps said disgustedly. “Come on, let’s go trace that gun.”
Chapter 20
Nita Moline sat across the district attorney’s desk. Her gloved hands were clenched into little fists. The color which she had applied to her face no longer blended with her complexion because her complexion had suddenly gone pale, leaving the rouge on her cheeks no longer blended into a smooth luster of color, but as jagged, irregular blotches.
Duryea said, “I will repeat my statement, Miss Moline. You were in a position to benefit by Mr. Stearne’s death?”
“I suppose so, yes.”
Duryea opened the drawer of his desk, took out the thirty-eight caliber revolver which the diver had recovered from the bottom of the ocean. “I’ll show you this gun, Miss Moline, and ask you if you have ever seen it before.”
She recoiled from it, and said quickly, “I’m sorry, Mr. Duryea, but I don’t like guns.”
“Just look at it,” Duryea insisted, holding it toward her.
“What... what do you want?”
“Have you ever seen that gun before?”
“Not that I know of. I haven’t seen many guns. I don’t like them. I keep away from them.”
“And you don’t recognize this gun?”
“No.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
Duryea said impressively, “This gun was recovered from the ocean by a diver. It had evidently been dropped overboard from the Gypsy Queen.”
She nodded her head silently, her eyes still fastened on the weapon.
Duryea went on, “That gun has a number stamped on it.”
Again she nodded.
“Under the law,” Duryea went on, “when a revolver is sold, the dealer must keep a record of the number and the person to whom the sale is made.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of that.”
“Oh, you have?”
“Yes.”
“Through its number, this gun has been traced.” Duryea said. “It was sold by the manufacturer to a jobber in Los Angeles. The jobber sold it to a dealer, and the dealer sold it to — guess who?”
She seemed desperate, as though trapped, but she clenched her lips tightly together, and shook her head.
“It was sold to C. Arthur Right,” Duryea said calmly.
“Arthur’s gun!” she exclaimed.
“Yes.”
“And it was dropped overboard from the yacht?”
“Apparently, but that isn’t all, Miss Moline.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“By the use of an instrument known as the comparison microscope, we can check bullets and determine definitely whether any given bullet was fired from any particular gun. We have completed experiments with this weapon, and I now have definite proof that this was the weapon which fired the bullets that killed Addison Stearne and C. Arthur Right.”
She was silent now, saying nothing.
“A reconstruction of the crime,” Duryea went on, “indicates that in place of being a double murder, the tragedy which occurred on that yacht was, in reality, a murder and suicide. Now what do you know about that?”
“Why, nothing.”
“How long were you aboard that yacht before you fainted?”
“Just a minute or two. I stood on the pier for several minutes, trying to attract the attention of someone aboard the yacht. Then I noticed that the skiff which belonged to the Gypsy Queen was tied up there at the pier. So I felt certain Mr. Stearne, knowing that I would show up early in the morning, probably before he got up, had made arrangements with some other yachtsman to take the skiff over to the float and leave it tied up so I could come aboard.
“I untied the skiff, and got in and shoved off. That took a little while, then I got aboard and called out to see if anyone was up. When I didn’t get any answer, I took the skiff back to the stern and tied it. That took a little while. I walked around the yacht, thinking that Addison and Arthur were still asleep. Then I got hungry and decided I’d go get myself a cup of coffee. I went down into the lower cabin, and — well, that was it. I saw the two bodies.”
“How long were you there?”
“In the room with the bodies?”
“Yes.”
“Just a matter of seconds. Not over a minute at the very longest.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I ran through the yacht, screaming and shouting for help, but there was no one in any of the staterooms. I went into the crew’s quarters. There was no one there. I came back, and went to the upper cabin. No one was up there. I went out to the rail, and... and then I...”
“Yes, we know definitely what happened after that,” Duryea said. “I’m trying to find out what happened before.”
“Well, that’s all that happened.”
“And you’ve told me everything now.”
“Yes. Everything.”
“There’s nothing else you know about this case?”
“No, not a thing.”
Duryea frowned. “I have a very definite impression, Miss Moline, that you’re holding something back.”
She flared into indignation, suddenly pushing back her chair. “I’m tired of trying to co-operate with you, Mr. Duryea. I’ve told you everything, and I’m not going to submit to any further questioning. I’ve gone over this time and time again. I’m not...”
The door to the reception room opened, and Miss Stevens, Duryea’s secretary, said apologetically, “Mr. Wiggins is here and says you’re expecting him.”
“Tell him to wait,” Duryea said irritably.
“But he says that he has those people with him, that you’re...”
Gramps pushed her gently to one side. “It’s all right, my dear,” he said in his shrill, piping voice. “These are the people Mr. Duryea wanted to... Come right in, folks.”
The district attorney stared in surprise while Gramps escorted a man and a woman past the secretary and into Duryea’s office.
Duryea regarded the couple with disfavor. They had a somewhat seedy look. The man seemed honest enough, but he was embarrassed and ill at ease. There was definitely something off-color about the woman, a chip-on-the-shoulder attitude of slatternly belligerency.